When the Song Ends
by Anya3
Summary: He shouldn't be there. He wasn't even sure how he got there. All Stiles knew was the pain and how badly he wanted...needed to fix it. To change it. or in which Stiles does anything and everything he can to forget or change what should never have been. *Warning: Character death, angst, panic attacks, time travel*
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The first thing that he notices is the silence.

A complete void of sound.

Then he takes a deep breath and everything seems to break.

He can hear his breathing, feel his chest moving up and down with each ragged motion. Then the birds, distantly chirping in the trees. The sound of the wind rustling the leaves on the ground; the crunch signaling the crisp beginnings of fall.

He knows he's standing still, his arms stretched out with the beginnings of a deep ache in his muscles and he releases them, letting his hands fall dead at his sides. Everything is calm now and it only makes the remaining memory of the chaos he'd left a glaring reminder of where he'd just been.

When he'd just been.

Opening his eyes confirmed the flickering light of the afternoon sun filtering through the forest canopy. His face was tilted towards the sky, allowing the warmth to sweep across his cheeks.

The world felt new. Real. Different. But despite that, hope couldn't seem to well in his chest. Instead there resided a firmly planted pain. Familiar and distinct. After all, he'd held it within him for the last few months, unable to loosen the tense knot of despair even when he heaved dry everything he had. When he had sobbed for hours on end. In the way these things did, it seemed only to grow; to consume his entire being until he'd given in and fought back.

They'd yelled at him, screamed for him to stop, to come back to reality, to stop the insanity and come back, but coming back would be to a world without-

he wouldn't.

He refused. Outright refused to allow that to be the end of all things, everything he'd worked so hard for. They had worked so hard for. So he'd pushed, pulled, drained every ounce of energy, had the gall to draw from others. He'd ignored their cries, their fear and driven forward, pulling it all in and then pushing it all away, forcing away that world and remembering a time that seemed so long ago, when everything was okay. When it wasn't...when he hadn't lost so much...lost everything. And as suddenly as the light had engulfed him, it had gone and he was left standing in silence with only the echoes of Scott, Lydia and Isaac's desperate shouts lingering in his ears.

Letting out a deep sigh he hadn't realized he'd even taken in, Stiles allowed his head to drop, glancing at his surroundings. He knew where he was in moments. Each tree, each dip in the earth, had become familiar over the years and he knew these lands well.

It was harder than it should have been, logically, to force his legs into motion. After all, that was why he was here, why he'd pushed so hard to bring himself to this point. Why he had given up so much, to come to this place against all reason. One last time, that's all he needed.

With the blood rushing heavy in his ears, lankily grown limbs moved carefully, barefoot through the forest, the crunch of the leaves below his feet nearly deafening. Each step seemed farther, longer until it finally came into view not a few feet away, hidden only by a scarce few trees.

Heart pounding hard within his ribs, Stiles approached the shell that was once the Hale house, a thick ball of emotion breaking within his throat and burning like acid up through his sternum.

The distant familiarity of the burnt remains was even less reassuring, not a bit of whatever relief he'd hoped it would be. It was a terrible reminder of what he done, what they'd destroyed and rebuilt only to lose it all in seconds. It was winning the race, celebrating the glory and feeling the pride only to wake on the morning before, realizing it was all a dream, a wonderful dream torn from you too soon. The surreality was compounding with each step he took towards the house. Even from here he could smell the charred wood and brick, remembering vaguely in the back of his mind a short memory of somber celebration when the second floor of the western wall had finally come down.

For a long moment he allowed himself to drift into that memory, remembering the spiraling relief that had crossed Derek's face when the last few bricks crumbled to the ground. They'd all stood there for long seconds, uncertain, looking to their alpha for direction. Derek had finally rolled his shoulders, shooting Stiles a look then moved towards the next wall, grabbing up the sledgehammer and pounding away. His betas hesitated for only seconds before following, everyone working on taking down the next wall, then the next, and then the next. It had been a monumental day. The day everything had changed.

That night they had celebrated quietly with pizza and a rerun of Spawn on CBS. That night the house was a little cooler, open air breezing through the hallways from the newly emptied space. That night it felt like the weight of the past began to lift. That night, Stiles stayed till dawn long, after everyone had retreated to their homes.

The memory left him then and Stiles found himself standing before the steps of the old home, hearing the echo of laughter in his head. With a deep breath, he took his first step up, careful of the partially worn away board on the second rise. The one he'd tripped over the night of the full moon only months after the entire second floor of the house had been demolished. He'd been in such a rush that he'd forgotten, stumbling and scraping his knee. Like a child he'd sat, listening to the admonishment he'd received from a sour werewolf, who really wasn't so put out as he liked to pretend he was. Stiles was fairly positive that he actually felt rather important in this way. Taking care of someone who couldn't heal like he could. So Stiles let him. He may have even smiled a bit too when Derek wasn't looking.

Ignoring the harsh tightening in his chest, he pushed a hand roughly through his hair, breaking his stride at the top step. It felt like hours standing before the door. His hand trembled inches from the dented knob, a fear he didn't quite understand yet knew too well was hard to quell rolling through his lungs, making it hard to breath. Letting the air rush from him, he pushed the door open, watching it squeak and swing to a stop against the back wall, opening the ruins of the house to his view. The shaking seemed to grow then, swelling up his arm and into his shoulders. This close, he could smell the familiar scent of the house, Derek, the family long gone, even some of his friends. He didn't have werewolf abilities but that didn't stop him from using what senses he did have. Over the years he'd grown to know, to absorb, to adore these scents. Now, though. Now they didn't bring the emotions they once did. Now they cause the trembling to spread through his limbs making it hard to move forward. But as he did with everything else in his life, Stiles forced himself through it. Forced himself to move forward, taking another step.

To his left the kitchen came briefly into view and the air he'd finally taken in rushed from him once more, the burn returning to his throat. In an instant another memory came to him, unwanted but undeterred by his welling emotion. The refrigerator door cold against his back, even through two layers of cotton; Derek's warmth at his front a sharp contrast. A rough man with a soft mouth, softer than he'd ever have anticipated. A first kiss that destroyed any chance of salvaging his heart.

Hands warmer than his pressed against his arms, not holding but pleading and the unbelievable way his pulse pounded in his ears, thrilling against his will.

Scrubbing roughly at his cheeks, Stiles closed his eyes again. Memories surrounded him with every step, every smell, every sound. Scott and Jackson bantering in front of the television over which wrestling match they were going to watch. Lydia calmly turning the station to Sex and the City while they fought and smiling to herself when they didn't argue her choice. Isaac laughing at a snarky retort Stiles shot Derek's way. Four irritated wolves and a banshee glaring at Stiles while he jumped up and down yelling his victory in Clue. Derek absently making Stiles a bowl of soup along with his own when the pack settled in for dinner. Derek presenting him a new leather bound journal when he said the old beastiery was falling apart. Derek stunning everyone into silence by pelting the pack with snowballs at their first meeting in the newly rebuilt house. Derek's laughter echoing through the bedroom when Stiles said something funny. Derek taking too long in the bathroom and making Stiles late for his first AP of the semester at Berkley. Derek happily shoving cake in his face before getting a nose full himself. Derek admitting after the fact to asking his father for...

He hadn't even noticed how tightly his fists had been clenched until he unfurled his fingers, letting the blood rush back into the deep white crescent marks on his palms. Inside the memories were harder to ignore, harder to push away and he wasn't even sure he wanted to. Shaking his head, Stiles took another step, then another until he was halfway up the staircase to the second floor. Trailing his fingers over the wood of the railing, he frowned. The digits stretched across the smooth grain, absent of the deep grooves from claws yet to be made. An angry reminder of a fight he'd begun, an argument of tearing down the old and building the new. One of their first. One of their only real fights.

Everything else was nothing, nothing at all in the light of all they had. All they had created.

The second floor was less familiar than the first, likely because they'd removed it so quickly. Quick enough to rid themselves of the memories buried in the scorched out walls. Memories of a family long gone but well remembered and the ushering in of a new family, built of friends and fights and need and love. Born of something wild and terrified and molded into something that resembled a real future.

The doorways were familiar and Stiles knew in the back of his mind which room had belonged to which family member. He didn't venture into them, however. He never had before and he wouldn't begin now, no matter how much of a second chance this appeared to be. He knew it wasn't. It couldn't be. You couldn't change some things, no matter how hard you tried.

The corner had been so difficult to turn when his father had them helped carry the new mattress up the stairs. They'd struggled with it for a while, getting stuck more than once or twice in the strange turns of the hallway before they'd finally made it to the bedroom, simply dropping it on the floor just inside the door and having a good laugh about it. Then the sheriff had proceeded to drag him into his arms, hugging him tight and making sure Stiles knew exactly how much he was going to miss his son.

To which he'd pointed out that moving into Derek's wasn't him moving across the country, it was just another step into the future. That had prompted more hugging and a home cooked dinner of his mother's meatloaf recipe to which Derek had been pleasantly surprised. He would never forget the prideful smile he'd had while setting their new table, watching his boyfriend of then two years and his father share commentary over their beer.

Instead he turned right, moving down the hall towards the one room he'd known better than any other room in the house. Moving into the room, rubbed raw hazel eyes took in the old, remembering the new, feeling the momentary relief as his lungs worked rhythmically in and out. They'd never really fought over the room once the house had been finished. Stiles had picked out the kitchen, feeling pride in the placement of every piece. Lydia had all but taken over the major rooms. The living room, the den, the library and some of the guest rooms. Even a bathroom or two (though Jackson had rebuilt and redesigned the basement when she was in New York with her parents for a week). This room, however, this was theirs. A room that had been rebuilt over again, remade into something that wasn't all Derek and sometimes too much Stiles. He'd never seemed to mind though. They'd never argued over the placement of items. The long dark burgundy curtains that allowed them to sleep late. Derek. The Batman original movie poster above the nightstand. Stiles. The left side of the closet full of dark hues and too-worn jeans contrasted by the bright flannels and screen-tees that were just a bit smaller. Stiles never told Derek how much he loved the way their shoes looked, like a jumble all tossed together on the floor just inside the closet doors. Or the way their towels end up in the corner on top of one another. It had taken some convincing but he even coerced Derek into hanging a few pictures of their pack, of them, on the walls, Stiles' grin always the brightest in every photo. All but one. One where Derek's enormous grin rivaled even the sun.

That memory. That memory hurt the most in the best of ways. Every time he glanced at the silver frame, the bright shining faces staring back at him reminded him of that day. The best day of his life.

He didn't need the picture, though, he only had to look out the window if he had dared, only had to glance down at the back of the house where the new yard had been built to remember. To remember the laughter and the joy, the tears and the banter. A cake that Lydia had picked out, suits that were a little too tight to be comfortable, flowers that made the sheriff sneeze at just the wrong moments, a kiss he would never admit nearly made his legs give out and the tightness of his new husband's hand gripping his as they sat at the table next to his father and Mrs. McCall.

It had been the best day of his life, aside from the night Derek had compared the size of a plain silver band to the size of the full moon, a sly, nervous grin on his face as they lay out under the stars on a cool September night. Stiles hadn't cried. Not one bit and not for nearly half an hour. Scott would back him up that those were definitely not hiccups over the phone when he called, wrapped up in warm arms and overwhelmed by love.

They'd made them dance, pushing the flustered duo onto a rather rickety wooden dance floor that Isaac and Scott had built a week prior. He would deny it for weeks but that had been one of the most amazing moments of his whole life. He'd pressed his face into Derek's neck and relished in the grip of their arms around each other. His husband whispering in his ear, but Stiles never knew if it was the words to the song or his own, too flustered and in love to listen too hard. It was the best memory he had.

The memory he loved most, the one that brought the best tightness to his throat.

Now though, it was the worst. The worst feeling in the world and in an instant he was so grateful that he was standing in a half destroyed room instead of the bedroom he'd come to love, staring down at the picture itself. It was still there. Back there in the room he hadn't been in for months. The home he hadn't been to in just as long. Scott had tried, he had and Stiles couldn't blame his friend or even his father for trying, but he'd rather sleep on the worn out plaid couch than go back into that house by himself. Knowing what waited for him. Knowing that the dishes were still in the sink, dirty and waiting to be washed. It was Derek's turn. He was going to do them when he got back that night. That the food in their fridge would have gone bad by now. The chocolate milk he'd badgered Derek into buying for him, spoiled. The remote would still be out, the dead batteries laying beside it, waiting to be replaced so they could finally watch that movie they'd DVR'd. The cheap store-bought pizza they were going to make, the beer, still sitting out on the counter. The coins he'd dropped on his way down the stairs. The half used bottle of shampoo in the shower. The closet door still half-open. The bed unmade and the sheets half tumbled off of it. He could never sleep when Derek was away. The load of laundry still in the washing machine, never switched over to dry. The towels and clothes thrown haphazardly in the hamper still needing to be washed. Derek had reminded him that morning over the phone, his voice teasing. 'Don't forget the laundry, it's your turn.'

It rose so quickly that he had no time to prepare for it. It wasn't unfamiliar, not at all. He'd had  
panic attacks for the last few months, after all. Sometimes when someone else was there, sometimes alone. Sometimes he woke up curled in his covers, sometimes he woke up with his father wrapped around him, his own quiet tears lost in Stiles' hair, both of them trembling against one another. Sometimes he just sat for hours and let it wash over him, stared out the window and ignored the tears streaming down his face until it was dark and another day had passed him by pointlessly.

This time though, it wasn't like it had been. It was slower, softer. A build up of pain and regret and memory that swept over him. He could breathe, unlike last time but his vision blurred and in moments the room swam in a sea of salt-ridden tears. The sobs heaved his lungs, making his chest hurt, his stomach tighten up with each cry. Before he knew it, his cries were louder than they'd ever been, his face and shirt soaked with the large droplets falling from the curves of his cheeks. He tried to reign them in, thought for an instant of how he should quiet himself. Why? Why should he now censor his pain, when no one was around to share in it, when no one knew why, would be following him or come running. Even when the pain of his legs giving out and his knees dropping to the hard wood of the darkened floor shot through him, his cries continued to flood from his throat unchecked and full of pain. He cried for his loss. He cried for the emptiness that it left, for seven years he'd thrown away to return to this place and time. He for all of the unfinished things that sat waiting for what would never return.

Derek had smelled him instantly, confusion and shock jolting him out of his revelry. He walked the woods near his old house often enough on full moons and nights just prior and following. He would spend hours of the day just walking, watching the light move across the sky until nighttime. Sometimes it helped to keep his mind occupied as he did, but it also helped to be close. He could remember his family, leaving behind the pain of his loss momentarily for the happier memories of family dinners and the laughter of children in the house. Of tossing his cousin's and siblings in the air as they played. Showing each other up while they chased the light of the moon. Sometimes he could forget the bad completely and it almost felt like moving forward.

He had a growing pack now, something closer to a family than he'd ever had before. They were learning and they would move into something greater eventually and that was something he looked forward to.

He could feel even Scott breaking down, closer to giving in and becoming a part of his pack, could feel the closeness that begun to grow between all of them, even allowing humans to integrate their way into the fold. Sometimes they came to him out here in the woods, sometimes in the newly purchased loft and sometimes even in the old Hale house. But they always came in groups, always together to seek his advice or simply to bother him.

This though, this felt different. This felt...not new, but more. More than what had ever permeated the air. It was Stiles, of that he had no doubt, but it was sudden. One moment nothing, the next there. And it was different, so very different. Stronger, stranger, bolder and filled with so much more. With pack and home but more than anything, pain. Anguish and anger and pure unfiltered pain. It made the wolf in him whine, the sound sliding unbidden from his throat before he could stop it and in an instant he was moving towards the source, careful and quiet.

He caught sight of the boy just outside of his childhood home, brow furrowing in confusion. He seemed different, the closer he got the stronger his scent became; as though the air were encompassed in it.

He knew Stiles. Not well, not so well as he should for one making a firm place in his pack, but this was nothing he ever normally associated with the kid. Something out of place and it compelled him forward, following silently as the human moved into the home like it welcomed him. There was a familiarity about the steps that drew the confusion even tighter. The way the lithe hands drew over the woodwork with the intimacy of a well-known lover; reverent and sure but tentative and careful. The scent of agony spiraled higher, then seemed to dissipate some as the younger man ascended the staircase.

He should stop him now, tell him to leave, get out and go back home before his father caught him out on curfew. He should shove him into the nearest door and knock some sense into his teenage head before he got himself hurt. He should do a lot of things. But what Derek did was follow silently up the staircase. He didn't know what he had expected, why he hadn't thrown him out instead of watching soundlessly while Stiles invaded his home, his bedroom. Whatever it was that he may have anticipated, it was not what came.

Instead, what filled the space between them was the most agonizing sound he'd heard since the imagined cries of his own family echoed in his head. Since he and Laura had howled out their own pain for the loss of their family. Derek's body jerked, his heart clenching with the flood of emotion pouring off of the man. He couldn't move, could barely breathe himself, uncertain of what to do until the human fell to his knees, a hard thud signally the loss of his balance, weakness allowing him to slot himself to the floor in complete resignation to the hurt.

He had no idea what had happened. Was Scott hurt? His father? Had something happened to their pack and had he sought out Derek to tell him only to be overcome by grief? No matter his reasons, no matter how much he bantered with Stiles or threw him around, he was pack. He would always be pack and inside his wolf was pacing and straining, pulling him towards the younger man as though drawn in by a cast line.

Empathy swarmed in him and a sudden need to stop the source of his pain flooded through his veins and Derek found his hand dropping gently to the other man's shoulder.

The reaction was instant, his sobs heaving harder, the scent encompassing him filling the room like a cloud of need and he knew instantly why it was different. It wasn't just Stiles, it wasn't just more pack, it was him. Them. A scent that usually was only an undertow with all of his pack was now the predominant one rolling off of him in waves, soaked in sorrow and pain. The burn in his own throat rose for no reason and he found himself gripping harder, Stiles' name embarrassingly choked out, his voice nearly unrecognizable in the flow of unbidden emotion.

The man below him spun and again a revelation came to him. Again he knew what had changed. In the back of his mind, he knew it was impossible and already he was shaking through the veil of denial. It was Stiles. Of that he had no doubts. But his hair was longer, his shoulders broader, his face older if only by a few years. He was not seventeen year old, lanky and stumbling, unsure but stupidly brave Stiles. Not a boy on the verge of being a man and fumbling through things he should never have to cope with. This was the man he would become, the one who had gone through god-know-what and come out the other side completely broken. A man who somewhere down the road had lost something, maybe everything if the pain that rolled off of him in waves was any indication. A man who had seen more pain than he should be allowed to and Derek had the sudden compulsion to find Stiles' younger self. To go seek out that seventeen year old idiot and hide him away from the world and whatever would come into his life that would take away everything that made him smile like the very sunshine in a way only Stiles could.

He didn't let that thought settle, didn't let it fester and grow, instead he stared down at the other man for only a moment before helping him to his feet without prompting, his hands gripping the human under his arms and lifting him effortlessly to stand. He was met with golden eyes rimmed with shock before they melted into creases again, nearly closed save the tears that poured from his eyes anew.

His own name shot from Stiles' throat like a bullet, painful and far too telling. His arms were full before he could breathe a word and for a long moment he fought against instinct to push the warm body away and demand answers. Instead he took it in stride, throwing aside his usual demeanor towards the younger man, wrapping his arms around the his tall form and holding him close. It felt right in a wrong sort of way and he wondered briefly who he was taking this from. Was it his father? Scott? Was it himself?

Was he taking this moment of comfort that should have rightfully been someone else's as his own and letting himself fall into it selfishly? He should let go. He should ask the right questions and yell at him for something...anything. Instead, he held him tighter and let the man soak his shoulder in tears.

It could have been minutes or it could have been hours or it could have been days that they stood there, just inside the doorway to Derek's room clinging to one another like the light of the world was going out. The years could have passed by and neither would have known.

When they did pull away, the light outside was dimming in hues of pink and orange and the light of the evening sun. Stiles shivered slightly, feeling the cool of the evening beginning to creep into his bones at the loss of Derek's embrace. It was hard to meet his eyes at first, knowing that they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. And truth be told, he wouldn't have known what to say. He had thought this through a million times. Thought of what he would say, what he would do, how he could change everything but now, in this moment, all he could do was stare. Take in the face he'd woken up to every morning over the last few years. The face that was younger but still looked just as incredible in the dimming light of the evening as it did in the early morning rays of the sunlight that streamed in through their windows. The face he had trailed his fingers over a million times if just to see a smile, to trace the outline of his eyes, the crinkles at the corners, over his mouth as he woke from a night curled into one another. This was Derek. His Derek, but not. One that didn't know, he didn't have those memories and in a way that left Stiles utterly and completely alone in this new, old world.

"Stiles.."

Stiles closed his eyes briefly and let his name wash over him in a familiar ocean of warmth. It  
couldn't last though and again he found his eyes drawn to Derek's. He felt the beginnings of acidic pull drifting into his throat again, the nauseating burn forced down with a hard swallow. What could he even say to him? How could he explain who he was, how he was here? Why he was here.

How do you tell your soul mate that you couldn't go on without them? That you defied everything screamed at you through the blinding light of forbidden magick? How do you tell them that you did the unthinkable to see their face one more time when they didn't even know what they were to you? That you drew from the souls of people you loved most in this world just to say goodbye to the one you couldn't live without? There were a million things he could say, a million he shouldn't say and even more that he should.

"I should have been there."

That wasn't one of them.

Derek's brows furrowed deeply, hands still on Stiles' shoulders. "Should have been where, Stiles? What are you-"

In a rush, he was talking. He knew he should stop, his brain was screaming at him to shut up, to stop speaking now before he said too much, but then again, too much had happened, too much to keep inside and really, what did it matter anymore? What would it ever matter again?

"I should have been there with you! I should have gone. I only said no because I was mad that you fought me on the pool. It was stupid, sofucking stupid. I don't need a pool, I never did and if I had gone, if I had been there, they wouldn't have questioned you, you wouldn't have gone on the run and they wouldn't have- I should have keep my mouth shut and just gone with you because that was my job! I should have been by you, just like I promised I would be, I should have-"

Stiles found himself pressed against Derek's shoulder, taking in his warmth again, his hands clutching tightly to the sides of the slightly taller man's faded shirt. "Stiles what the hell are you talking about? Go where? You're right here and so am I, I'm fine." Derek huffed, uncertain of his words, himself. His mind whirled in confusion, the rambling sentences making no sense what-so-ever. He clutched the other man to him if for nothing else than to keep him from breaking down again, to keep him coherent. Stiles didn't stay put though, he pulled away again, his hands moving along Derek's side and arms, grasping at him as though he were positive that he would disappear in the next instant.

"You're not though." he breathed. "You're not fine and it's my fault. You should have been, you should be home with me right now but you're not and you never will be again and I can't go back, Derek." he gasped, fighting back the onslaught of another panic attack rising in his chest. "I can't go back to the emptiness and the laundry and the pizza we never cooked and I can't go back because you aren't there!"

Shaking his head, Derek's brow furrowed even deeper. This was not Stiles, not as he'd ever seen him. That crawling suspicion, the one that worried him far too heavily weighed again in his mind. Impossible as it seemed, it grew more and more with each word. He knew Stiles, he'd known him for a while now and though they bantered and argued and fought, they still had some awkward form of companionship. Something bordering on the edges of friendship, tentative but ready. That was not what this was. That was not what the Stiles standing before him was expressing and it both thrilled and terrified him. For if what he was rambling was truth…

"You aren't making sense, Stiles." He stated calmly, making the executive decision to remove them from the room. He drew them down the stairs, not certain if he should feel relief or anxiety when Stiles went silently, eyes slightly unfocused when he was settled onto the couch. Carefully, Derek sat next to him, watching his face carefully and letting long moments stretch between them before he spoke again. "Start from the beginning." He offered, eyes still skimming the other man's face.

Stiles wasn't sure how long he sat there, feeling the weight of the broken couch beneath him, the warmth of Derek next to him. He didn't know how long his mind spun in circles. Consequences. Dangers. Hundreds of thousands of reasons he should stop now, reasons he should lie and walk away while he still could. But when his eyes rose to meet those of the werewolf, those reasons bled away like the last of his memories circling the drain, waiting to fade away to nothingness and he knew he couldn't.

"I've done a terrible thing." He stated quietly, eyes never leaving Derek's. "I lost my husband and may have killed my friends just to see him again. I don't know if I can make it right or if it will matter," he took a deep breath, finally feeling weariness creep over him, "but if you could call Deaton, I think I should go home now."


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh Stiles, what have you done?"

Deaton's breathless question was not what he'd been expecting when they entered the Beacon Hills Animal Hospital a few hours later. He really should have, he supposed. After all, it was always Deaton who knew before hand what was going on with their little pack. Always had the enigmatic answers to questions they had yet to ask, so of course he would know as they entered that something very off had happened. For what little normalcy that surrounded them anymore seemed to be a blessing and his disruption of that was no exception to the long list of strangeness they faced on an almost daily basis.

Stiles, though, barely paused, moving forward to slump against the wall and into a rather retro plastic chair. At least the room was familiar. It hadn't changed in all the years they had been coming to Deaton, even the kitten poster on the wall was vaguely reassuring in its presence. Carefully drawing in his breath, Stiles lifted his eyes to meet those of the now rather flustered Veterinarian's. The man knelt before him, requesting Derek lock the front door to ensure privacy.

"If you are indeed who I believe you to be, I'm assuming that we really shouldn't alert anyone else to your presence at this time, Mr. Stilinski, am I right?"

"Hale." Stiles choked out, sliding his hand to clutch at the inner thigh fabric of his pants.

As he'd anticipated, that gave both men pause, Derek's head turning from the glass door where he stood watch, snapping his gaze to Stiles' face even when he didn't meet them back, instead still focused on Deaton, who's eyes were widening just the slightest. The crouching emissary's eyebrows rose just the slightest, showing his curiosity at the unexpected answer. "Excuse me?"

Stiles could feel Derek's eyes on his neck like a brand, hot and demanding. He was always so intense, that never changed. Never faded. No matter what it was in regards to, Derek was always at the center of needing information whether he had to demand it by force or not. That was one thing that Stiles adored about him. One of many. The intensity of his gaze followed their relationship everywhere. Watching when he was baking or cooking, when the pack was running under a full moon and their gazes met, when he was looming over him with bare shoulders drawn taut in the heat of the moment, his eyes were always intense and full of need.

He cleared his throat, speaking soft but firmly this time. "Hale. It's not Stilinski anymore, it's Hale. "

Another silence greeted him and he could see the quick exchange between Deaton and Derek's glance. The vet stood, motioning for the both of them to follow him into the back, ushering Stiles to take a seat up on the table while Derek stood blocking the light from the doorway. The cold metal of the bench was strangely calming. It could have been because this was where they always felt sanctuary. Before everything had fallen apart. Before he'd drawn the energy from his friends, their very life and with that thought he felt his stomach turn and a wave of nausea overtake him. Right. So much for calming. Pushing it away, Stiles forced himself to meet Deaton's gaze again, trying desperately not to look at Derek for fear he may lose his grip on his emotions once more.

"When are you from, Stiles?"

Well, so much for beating around the bush. He didn't have to look at the werewolf in the doorway directly to know the expression on his face would have gone slack with confusion, realization already sparking in the synapses of his brain. The tension rolled off of him in waves. This wasn't how he should do this, but if Deaton was asking then apparently it was alright to break that oh-so-important rule of 'don't tell the past you're from the future'. Guess the whole butterfly effect could be bullshit?

Resisting the urge to dart his eyes towards Derek, Stiles shifted slightly on the table. "Two-thousand twenty." He breathed. He didn't have to be a werewolf to notice the shift in the room. A heavy weight of worry and tension flooded his senses. In the corner, Derek's shoulders were stiff, but his eyes were unmoving on the doorframe in front of him. There was the pretense of watching for intruders to their conversation but Stiles knew he was all ears.

"I'm not certain if I should first ask you how…or why you are here. It's obvious that a strong amount of magickal energy was used, of that I have no doubt. But the type of energy it would take to displace you is what concerns me the most. So I'm going to ask again, Mr. Stil-Hale," he stated pointedly, ignoring Derek's shifting arms at the correction, "Stiles. What have you done?"

"There was-" his voice broke and he took a moment to breathe, grateful to the two men in the room for saying nothing, in fact barely responding, to his pause before he continued, "there was another pack, upstate. They had been having their run of things near San Francisco and that was fine but they started coming farther south nearer to our territory and stirring up things. They had three alphas in their pack, the whole thing was super unorganized but Derek he-"

At the break, Derek's gaze finally turned to him, eyes unreadable when they settled on Stiles' face. Deaton gave him a moment before pressing a hand to Stiles' shoulder, urging him on. "He said they just needed direction. That we could form an alliance and teach them how to live like we had, working with humans and being a productive part of the world. He said they were just lost. They weren't lost-" Stiles choked on his words again but forced himself on, nearly sobbing the words out. "They weren't lost, they were _fucking rabid_! They wanted it all for themselves and thought we were weak and pathetic. They lied through their damn teeth and told Derek they wanted to meet us, to meet our pack. They wanted to form an alliance and _learn from our alpha_." He sneered, his words mocking theirs as the memory echoed through his mind.

He was silent for long minutes after that, gathering his thoughts and staving off the ever present need to cry, the pain of holding it back welling in his chest and throat like a cold burn. Deaton didn't push and neither did Derek but he could see his face still, even from the corner of his vision and knew what he was thinking. Knew the other man could already read the end of this story.

"I was supposed to go with them." His voice had grown soft and it ached to continue. "But we fought that morning. Over the dumbest thing. Over a goddamn pool because I was being a child or woke up on the wrong side of the bed or had a stomach ache or some stupid unforgivable excuse. For no reason at all, really. I didn't want to go, I knew that, but I also knew how important it was that I was there.

"I could have protected them. I could have protected _him._ Instead I take a phone call in the afternoon, thinking it'll be him, thinking I'll apologize and everything will be alright. But it wasn't. It wasn't alright because he was ripped to shreds by those fuckers for trying to be the bigger wolf. He saved them- Scott and Isaac. Sacrificed himself and told them to run. He's the only reason that anyone in our pack is still alive. And I'm the reason he's dead."

Again the all encompassing silence came and his irritation grew with each second that passed before the doctor's voice intercepted his self-depreciating thoughts. "Stiles, you couldn't have known that was going to happen. It wasn't-"

"Don't _say_ that!" he cried, flitting his eyes back up to meet the darker man's, lips pulled taut in aggravation. "Don't fucking tell me that it's not my fault! Don't do that! Because it _is_! It was my responsibility to protect my pack and my husband and I failed! I let him die and every day I feel like I'm _suffocating_ without him! Don't you understand I couldn't _breathe_, I _can't breathe_ without him-"

He felt his voice breaking in his throat, words harder and harder to release, feeling so utterly alone. The panic spiraled back up and instead of fear, he felt exasperation. When would it end, when would they break away so he could find the air, so he could let go. Slamming his eyes shut, Stiles gripped tightly to the edges of the table, feeling the ache of his grip take hold, something physical to keep him steady as he tried to breathe through once more. He felt Deaton's hand on his arm, telling him to breathe steady but it swam in the back of his hearing like his head was submerged underwater once more.

Then, the feeling broke, a relief beginning to wash over him and he realized that Derek had moved. He was standing to the side of the table, hands firm on the younger man's shoulders. The pressure of his fingertips dug into the bones of Stiles' shoulders, a firm grounding point. But then Derek had always been that for him, even back when they were disagreeing and barely friends at all. A firm, steady grip that always helped him keep his hold on the world, on each situation that they faced. He was a force stronger than any other and Stiles had held no doubt that it would never change, that he would never lose that rock.

"What happened to the other pack?"

Derek's voice was unexpected and it jolted Stiles in his seat, though the hands on his shoulder's didn't loosen, keeping their firm grasp.

"A week after the pack came back, I went up north. I found them celebrating their victory like wild animals, laughing around this huge fire and I couldn't stand it. They didn't even let me claim my mate's body. They just burned him like he was peat for the flames." He huffed, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his nose roughly, pushing away the tears that fell. "I lost it. I saw them laughing at our pain, our loss, and I couldn't handle it." He paused again, wishing he could bring himself to glance up at Derek, over his shoulder and have some sort of strength. "I don't remember everything that happened but when it was over, when it was quiet and the only sound I could hear was fire, there were bodies everywhere. I didn't even care, either. I just left them there."

Deaton stepped away, moving to take a seat on the tall doctor's stool next to the wall of tools. He didn't speak, but continued to watch Stiles, letting him take his time before he continued. "Scott and Isaac knew when I came back. They could smell it on me but they didn't say anything. I think they didn't agree with what I did but they weren't going to question me on it either. Those wolves, they took him from us, from me.

"I never told my dad. Never told the others, either. But everyone already knew about Derek. Scott had called me when they were leaving the city. I remember he was crying so hard I could barely hear him." He whispered the last words, tapering off and taking another few deep breaths. The longer he spoke, the smoother the words came, not easier, but quicker, spilling from him like a fountain.

"I thought it would get easier as the weeks went on. We even had a funeral at the preserve but it didn't help. Nothing did. I couldn't go home anymore; I've been sleeping on my dad's couch. I can't even sleep in my old bedroom because it's too much. There are memories everywhere. Every person I looked at was another memory, another reminder that I would never see him again. Every smell, every sound, everything was just this horrible looming cloud. It_ never_ got easier. It never has. Every day is harder than the last.

"I had been practicing different types of magick over the last few years and I just figured that maybe there was something, anything that would help. Help me get over it, help bring him back, anything to make this constant smothering _pain_ just go away. So I went back out. I went out to the woods just outside our house. I don't know how they knew, probably Lydia, she's always known what was going on in my head. They followed me out but it was already too late. I just thought…I thought if I could draw just a little bit of life from everyone else, surely, _surely_ I would have enough energy to bring him back or to even just see him again even if for a minute. So I pulled and I pulled and I couldn't stop. It was out of control before I knew what was happening and I could hear them yelling but I couldn't stop and I didn't want to and all I wanted was Derek-"

Thick corded arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him backwards awkwardly towards a warm chest. Solid and real it was like an anchor had been cast allow Stiles to keep from drifting, holding firm to there here and now. Slowly his fingers lifted, carefully touching the soft hair of Derek's forearms.

"The next thing I knew I was standing in the woods just outside our house but everyone was gone and I just…I knew what had happened. I don't know how but I knew that I wasn't there anymore. The world felt lighter, it felt better and I saw the old house and…"

"I found you." His back rumbled with the words and it soothed him far more than it should have.

"Yeah. You found me. I thought it was you, my Derek but then you looked so confused, so young and you weren't him. But it didn't matter. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I get home, that I fix this if I can. I need to make sure they are okay. I don't even know where I left them."

Deaton sat quietly, Stiles' words rolling over him. It took him a few long minutes before he spoke again, his words low and soft. "It will take me a day or two to know exactly what happened and how to fix it. In that time you are welcome to stay here, there's a small office in the back and I can get you some blankets-"

"He'll stay with me."

Stiles' head whipped around, gazing directly at the younger Derek for the first time since he'd broken down. He wasn't looking at him, however, but at Deaton. "I'll tell the others to stay away for a few days, they won't question it if they think their safety is involved and I'll be able to keep an eye on him. You have my number if you find anything out." He offered, finally dropping his gaze to Stiles.

He wanted answers, he thought, answers that he really shouldn't be given. But Stiles already knew he couldn't deny Derek, even this younger version of his husband, anything he asked for. So he nodded his ascent slowly, turning back to Deaton who seemed to hesitate at the idea. "I'll be alright, I trust him with my life, obviously." He sighed, feeling the loss of a familiar heat as Derek pulled away. In all honesty, he hadn't expected him to offer. In fact, he'd expected nothing less than difficulty and judgment from this younger version of his mate, but as usual, Derek would always surprise him. Maybe it's because he could hear his heart, knew he was telling the truth. Maybe he was curious or maybe he was too shell shocked to do anything but concede. Whatever it was, Stiles was not going to question it or look what may just be a gift horse in the mouth.

Two hours later found Stiles sitting in Derek's nearly empty loft on a ridiculous looking leather couch (he'd made him get rid of it before they moved back into the house after his thighs kept getting stuck to the seat) eating slowly from a bowl of canned chicken noodle soup. Derek sat across from him on the rickety coffee table with his hands clasped between his knees. He'd been watching him since Stiles had taken the food from him as though searching his face would reveal all of his secrets. It was hard to meet his gaze when all Stiles wanted to do was hug him and tell him how much he missed him. It was hard enough looking at his handsome young face without wanting to kiss him.

Once his bowl was empty, he sighed, finally glancing up with a courage he didn't know he had to meet those intense eyes.

"Why the hell would you want a pool?"

Stiles blanched, setting the bowl down on the table next to Derek's leg before he dropped it and shook his head. "Seriously? Of everything you could be asking me, that's what you want to know? You know, that's exactly what you said then, too." He chuckled humorlessly, lips quirking to the side. Derek raised an eyebrow, obviously wanting a real answer and for a moment Stiles lost himself in familiar interaction. Throwing his hands up, he gave the taller man an incredulous look. "Pool parties! Pack pool parties, dude, how is that not cool?! We already barbecue half the weekends of the year and host movie nights and I know the beach is great and all, don't get me wrong, but a pool would be awesome. Plus, pool sex. How is that not a reason in and of itself."

He caught himself too late, forgetting momentarily where and when they were but the panic didn't well up in his chest this time when reality came back. Instead, calm kept over him and he was grateful for the reprieve. He was also grateful for Derek in either form, for this one kept his cool as well as his own ever had, only a slight quirk in his lips, brows furrowing slightly in thought as he took in the words.

"If you're curious you can ask, you know. I'd never keep things from you, even if it's kind of breaking the whole time travel unspoken rules or whatever." Stiles offered, shrugging one shoulder and raising a hand to scrub through his hair. "I mean, I know how to block memories so it won't really make a difference. One of the many things I've picked up over the years while studying with Deaton. I can block short term memory for a while, long enough so when things happen as they should it won't matter or interfere. I'd probably have to block yours anyway so that I don't affect anything in the future, right? I know Deaton would throw one hell of a fit if I let you remember all of this."

"So you don't think it's smart for me to remember? Maybe I should. I could change things. Do better than last time, fix what was wrong over the last seven years." Derek offered and for a long stretch, Stiles was inclined to agree. But there was too much in between, too much that had to happen that he couldn't know, or at least couldn't remember. And then there was them.

"If you remembered though, if you knew…it wouldn't feel real. When everything between us happened, it would feel like you were obligated and I would constantly question us. You know me, you know I would. And I wouldn't want how everything happened to change, not one bit of our lives together."

He knew by the look on Derek's face what he was thinking. He wanted to know if Stiles could go farther back, back to before the fire, save his family, get them out and he didn't know how he would answer that. This alone had been a fluke, an accident caused by grief and desperation. Derek had lived for years now without his family and though his regret and sadness wouldn't dissipate, it had faded, as had the guilt. Stiles knew it would fade to only a vague memory later, leaving only good memories of his family from before. Memories that helped his new family grow.

"I couldn't. Even if I wanted to and believe me I'd love nothing more than to change that but I can't. I can't hurt anyone else for my selfishness." He said softly, watching as Derek's shoulders relaxed slightly, drooping in resignation. He sat up a bit, shifting.

"Right. So. This, huh?" he raised an eyebrow, smirk playing along the drawn line of his mouth, moving a finger back and forth from his chest to the general direction of the other man. Stiles bit back his own gentle smile, glad for the ease at which Derek seemed to broach the subject.

"Yeah. This." He chuckled, repeating the motion with his own hand. "Believe me, it was as unexpected on this end as it was on yours. At least, in the beginning." He sighed, leaning back into the uncomfortable squeaking of the couch. "I remember being so nervous you would find out that I felt more than friendship for you that it didn't occur to me at first that you would have, too. We didn't rush it though and I think that really made a difference. We must have danced around each other for almost two years before anything actually changed."

Derek snorted, obviously expecting an answer along those lines. "Sounds about right. " he paused, glancing at his hands for a long moment before meeting Stiles' hazel eyes again. "Are you-" he cut himself off, looking frustrated before he decided on his words, then continued. "Were you happy? Were _we_ happy?"

Stiles watched his face. He knew his husband well enough by now to realize what emotions were clouding over him. "Yeah. Yeah we really were. From the moment you kissed me I knew that we would be. They always say that you know when you find your soul mate. Like…like they complete you and you just know that you belong together and no matter what you face you'll never fall out of love with them. That's what it felt like. I mean yeah, sure, we fought sometimes, but the longer we were together the less it mattered, you know? It was like no matter how much we disagreed on stuff, we never went to bed mad and we always woke up just happy to be lying there together. I know that sounds like some cheesy lifetime movie crap but it's the truth. We were so happy it fucking hurt, dude." He smirked so hard it made his face ache but was relieved to see Derek with his own soft smile pasted across his face.

Derek hesitated again, "And the pack? Are they happy? We've had some difficult weeks this last year. They deserve a break."

Stiles chuckled, shaking his head. "They're always a handful. We have all these extra bedrooms and even though everyone has their own places and stuff, there will be weeks everyone will just come over and stay." His smile was fond, love for their friends obvious. "Isaac stays with us a lot. His apartment is so small and I know he doesn't like being alone there. Sometimes we'll make pancakes in the morning. I tried to make you breakfast in bed once but I spilled coffee all over the sheets so you banned food from the room for good. Well, specific foods anyway, but that's another conversation." He laughed, scrubbing at his hair and enjoying the ease with which he could still speak to his husband, even if he wasn't exactly "his husband" yet. Derek, when he relaxed and let down his walls, always had a way of letting him just talk. It was a trait Stiles appreciated greatly. "Isaac, Scott and Allison come over on Sunday mornings with my dad and we have a family sit down breakfast. It's sort of become tradition. Then you and my dad watch whatever game is on, though I'm pretty sure it's just for his benefit. We have cookouts a lot. And we go to the beach. Things have really calmed down over the last few years and we haven't had to fight much. I mean, Beacon Hills is a beacon so of course things are in and out but you've always had a good run of your territory and with all of us working together it's been pretty good. Just last week Lydia ran another Banshee out of town, it was actually pretty funny. All she had to do was snap her fingers and flip her hair and the other girl just about fell over herself to get away. Lydia has pretty much become the brains of the operation. Between you and her, the town is locked down pretty well. She's like…human alpha."

Derek snorted, obviously already having a good sense of Lydia in this time to know what she was like. A force to be reckoned with. And over the years she'd gotten even better at her skills. She was sharp and quick and never let anyone or anything run over her. Stiles was glad to call her a friend.

"I'm sure Erica just loves that." Derek snarked, standing and moving towards the open kitchen and a steaming pot of coffee that called his name. He was halfway through pouring a cup when he noticed the silence. He finished placing the pot back into the holder, stirring in two tablespoons of sugar then made his way back to sit down, this time on the couch next to Stiles. The human didn't meet his eyes at first, staring at his hands as though they would be able to answer for him. Derek got there first, however. "What happened to her? You said Isaac is still around. And Boyd, you haven't mentioned him either. They didn't just leave, did they." The last was obviously a rhetorical question and Stiles sighed, raising his eyes to meet.

"No. No they didn't leave. They died. Quite a while ago now. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if they were still with us but it wasn't our fault." Derek frowned, sensing the vague tone in Stiles' words but saying nothing. "There wasn't anything we could have done more than what we did. That was the roughest year. It really tested who we were and where our loyalties lay, but I think most of us came out for the better." He offered quietly.

He wanted to ask. Wanted to know what had happened, what they'd done, what he'd done to leave them less. Maybe he could change that too. Maybe he could hold on to those memories, do something to save his growing pack from any more grief.

Stiles must have known what he was thinking (which was a true testament to their future relationship) when he spoke up. "I'm blocking your memories so I guess it doesn't matter what I tell you, huh?"

"Probably not."

He wanted to say more. How it wouldn't help, wouldn't make a difference. A lot of him didn't want to know. What if he was a part of the reason they were dead? Did he really want that knowledge, even if it was going to be taken from him. The decision was removed, however, when Stiles spoke.

"There's an Alpha pack coming. They're strong. Really freaking strong. Freakishly, freaking strong-"

"Stiles."

"Right. Anyway, they show up next year. And it's not good. They want you and then they want Scott and the guy in charge is a creepy asshole. Like, creepier than Peter, who by the way becomes just slightly less creepy once he takes a year or two off in Florida. A lot goes down. With the Argents, with the pack, school, just a lot. But it gets better. There's um..there's a short period where you kinda went off for a while and I won't get into that because I really don't want to relive it, but you came back after a couple of months. I guess that's really when things started to change."

Derek nodded, feeling a strange gratefulness for the sugar coated version he was certain the other man was giving him.

"Maybe…" Stiles began again and he focused his gaze on the floor before continuing, "Maybe you could just, I don't know, half ass remember to send them away next year? Or lock them up somewhere or something. And also don't trust any hot high school teachers. Yeah let's go with that. Maybe I can just leave notes in your brain." He chuckled mirthlessly, looking up to Derek again, a hand reaching out almost desperately to touch the line of his jaw. "I know I can't. But that's how these things work. This is how this life was meant to play out and I was wrong to try and change it. So maybe…maybe I can just take this as a second chance. Maybe we can just…spend these few days together and when I go back maybe it'll be easier. Knowing that somewhere you're still you and you're still alive and okay."

His voice was soft and Derek felt no need to pull away when the gentle hand braced on his neck. Stiles leaned forward almost hesitantly, pausing for a moment before their lips met. It was probably wrong, but who was to say that he couldn't let this older Stiles have this moment. He'd been through a lot, it sounded like they all had and if the future was as perfect between them as he'd made it out to be, there was no harm in testing the waters. The kiss was soft and unrushed, just a gentle brush of lips against lips. Nothing and everything all at once and strangely not enough.

Stiles was a bit surprised when he felt a hand brace against his shoulder, pressing their mouths closer. He'd expected nothing less than Derek to pull away. After all, this wasn't who they were now. Not at this point in time. But he wasn't going to complain, taking every good memory he could wholly and selfishly.

Long minutes passed before Stiles reluctantly pulled away, pressing their foreheads together. "Thank you." For listening. For understanding. For still being you even when you aren't yet; the words went unspoken.

Two short days passed before the call came. They'd spoke more of their future, mostly good memories between the two of them. Holidays and evenings watching movies and playing in the snow with the pack when a rare thick snow fell one year. The hours had been too short for Stiles' taste but he relished every second he had. Derek, for his part, was far more tolerable than he'd anticipated he would be. They ate meals together, watching a couple of old (well they were old to him) movies and spent the long crisp afternoons walking in the woods by the old house or talking quietly in the loft. Stiles couldn't imagine having better spent the short amount of time he was allowed.

When Derek answered the phone, it was almost reluctantly, eyes finding Stiles' over the back of the couch. "Deaton. Yeah…alright yeah. We'll be there in the morning."

And as quickly as that, it was over and Stiles felt his stomach sinking. This was it. Deaton explained that he could indeed send him back and with Stiles' help, he would likely arrive in place of his future self in the same location he'd been, moments after the shift. Tomorrow he would go home and face his future again. A future without Derek. But maybe it wasn't the end of the world anymore. Maybe now he had something to take back with him. Memories he would never let go of, consequences to live up to and hopefully a pack to reconnect with. But God, would he miss those green eyes…

* * *

_I just want to throw out a quick thanks to everyone for reading this! First hand at Sterek which i've completely fallen in love with. I've got another couple of stories lined up but we shall see how it goes!_

_Reviews are LOVE _


	3. Chapter 3

Morning always came too soon when your stomach was filled with nervous butterflies. Especially when you knew you had something to look forward to, whether it be good or bad. Doctor's visits, vacations, the body made no distinction between positive or negative emotion when it came to nerves. And that morning, Stiles couldn't even make the decision himself as to which it was. Instead he occupied himself by tapping a rhythm out with his fingertips on the curve of his knee, eyes glued out the passenger window of Derek's camaro as the scenery passed by too fast for his liking. The last few days had been like moving through a dream, watching a life he remembered well slide through his fingers, but he was determined to go back with a new outlook towards the future. After all, his Derek wouldn't want him wallowing. He'd want him to continue their work, to protect their home and their family. It would be difficult but he had his friends and pack and he had his father and together they would all work through what would come. He'd lost sight of that, forgotten the things he had remaining. Things that, despite the loss and pain, could help him to keep moving forward, one step at a time.

The clinic was both ominous and relieving, something that confused Stiles greatly. It took all of his effort to remove his person from the car, but once he did, he kept a strong grip on the back of Derek's leather jacket to keep himself standing. Derek was a solid force and his presence alone made facing the task he before him even the slightest bit easier.

Deaton met them at the entrance to the clinic, nodding them both through the door and turning the sign to 'closed'. The walk to the back room was silent, Stiles' fingers finally untwining from the creaking leather to drop to his side. Instead of sitting, however, he kept on his feet, leaning against the back wall as Deaton eyed him for a long moment. It unnerved him the way the man could take him apart with just a look, as though he could see into his very soul. With a rather unsatisfied frown, the darker man spoke up.

"I can, indeed, get you home. With your help of course." He added, side-glancing at Derek. "Returning home, ironic as it may seem, is actually much easier than getting here was."

"Good that's…that's good. Right?" he offered, wringing his hands together and taking deep breaths to keep calm. A hope blossomed in his chest. There was still time, he could learn to move on from this.

"Taking energy is one thing. Releasing it is another. Not unlike stretching a rubber band, releasing that energy back out should, essentially, snap you back in place. Same time. Same location."

"Sounds easy enough." Stiles breathed, glancing between the two men before settling on Deaton's face when the man spoke no further, instead seeming determined to have him meet his gaze. Sliding away from the wall and towards the two seats against a side wall, the younger of the two Sparks felt his stomach drop. The look he was pinned with was nothing short of a double edged sword and he knew that look well enough. Derek always gave him that look. It was the good/bad look. The one when the dinner was delicious but it was his turn to take out the trash. Or when he would help decorate the tree but the hat would be torn to shreds if Stiles even attempted to place it on his head.

"There's something I feel it invaluable that you know before you leave. Before I explain how this will work, you need to understand what it cost. The price paid for you to come to this point in time." Deaton offered, moving to sit on the edge of the table, even as Stiles sank into a plastic chair against the wall, his own brow furrowing in confusion and anxious anticipation. "You were aware that you drew life energy from those around you. Though a Spark has many abilities, this is something that is rarely taught. It's more a form of magick, something you've no doubt taken upon yourself to learn." He waited for the hesitant nod that came before continuing, linking his hands together carefully. "I believe, however, what you fail to realize is the extent to which your power had drawn from. It's important, Stiles, for you to see what may have…what most likely will have happened when you transferred yourself here."

Stiles' eye widened, his own hands clenching together in worry. True, he'd drawn life energy from the people surrounding him but he'd been in control. At least he had until those last few moments when the magick seemed to spiral away from him. It was only a few seconds and then he'd found himself in the woods. But how much had changed in those few seconds..?

"When you drew the energy from the world around you, I do not think that you understood how much of the surrounding life you were actually drawing from. I've spoken with a colleague of mine regarding the matter and he seems to agree with my theory." Deaton sighed, forcing a strong gaze that locked on Stiles' eyes, drilling his words home. "The amount of energy it would take to send you here would affect every being and creature within a radius of no less than two miles. But it wouldn't have just drawn small portions from each of them, Stiles. That type of jump, something so far and so dangerous, to be done so flawlessly would have taken every ounce of life from any living thing within that circle."

The room was silent, stretching on for long moments. Stiles could feel his limbs shaking, his eyes burning again and it took every ounce of control he had within him not to break into pieces. His pack…his father…everything was gone. "What did I do? What am I going back to?" he whispered, eyes still focused on Deaton's face.

The older man was resilient in his silence, pursing his lips for long minutes before he deemed to respond. "I'm going to help you, Stiles. That is why I am here. That is why all of us, those with gifts, are here. To help, to teach. This is a lesson you need to learn, but I won't send you back knowing you would return to nothing. That would be exceedingly cruel of me, don't you think?"

"Then how-"

"While we will be able to block Derek's memories of the time you have remained here, mine will be harder to block. Instead, I offer a proposition, as I will need my memories as well to help you return to your time. We will leave my memories intact and I will remember these last few days, keep them away at the back of my mind until such a time comes as they are necessary. I will always know what will happen, but you must understand that beyond stopping you from returning here again, I will not interfere in anything else."

Derek frowned, crossing his arms and glancing towards an unnervingly quiet Stiles. "How do you know that will work? Wouldn't the you that he took the energy from in the future have known as well?"

Deaton returned the expression, shaking his head. "No. I don't think that time is the continuous loop that most assume it is. I believe that time is malleable. Through careful shaping, certain events both large and small can be changed. But in doing so, we risk much more than just the event itself that changed. If I were to stop Derek's death, who is to say that they would not come and kill the rest of the pack? If they were to be destroyed before the gathering, who is to say another pack would not avenge them. There is too much riding on each event, but I believe that what you did was unnatural. It was not meant to happen and in that way I may be able to change it without consequence." He shrugged, dropping his hands against his sides and standing from the table. "Then again, there can be no definitive. It's all speculation, for any documentation I've found of time travel has no comparison save the traveler's word that they did indeed change history by reversing or altering an event that took place in the past. However, none of this can be proven since the only history we will remember will be the one that we are either told, or, as travelers ourselves, see. Do you understand what I am saying, Stiles?"

"You'll.." the younger man swallowed hard, dragging a shaking hand through his hair, "you'll change things so that I don't do that. So that…when I return it was like I never left?" at the other man's nod, he felt a coil of tension release in his shoulders. "What ab-"

"I will not change anything other than the fact that you returned, Stiles. You need to _understand_ why I cannot."

Derek felt completely out of his element watching the two men communicate. There was nothing he could do, once they wiped his memory, to change what would come. He would still be with Stiles, they would still rebuild and he would still die protecting his pack. His mate. Though that thought should bring him the pride it deserved, he found it only clenched at his heart, the beginnings of remorse for a gift he had yet to begin experiencing. Stiles seemed to understand, in his silence. He would return and face the world that he'd left, but he would not be as alone as he had felt. Deaton would make certain of that.

Before he could even finish thinking them, the words had tumbled from his mouth. "What if I remember? I know why I shouldn't, I get that." He huffed, tightening his arms across the broad stretch of his chest. "But what if I did?"

Stiles shook his head, eyes finally turning to the dark haired wolf, sad. "You can't. There's too much riding on it, too much of what I told you could affect more than just a few things in the future and could alter everything. Even us. Things bigger than us, it's too much to bank on Derek and I'd-" he took a deep breath, clenching his eyes closed to rid himself of the burn of salt, "I'd rather have all of those memories of our life and lose you than to have to face one day of our lives differently. And I know you Derek, you are stubborn. If you remembered for one moment you would change things. It would be in good intentions, sure, but we don't have any idea what it would do to the rest of our lives or the lives around us."

He couldn't argue the point and Deaton's gaze seemed to suggest he felt the same. Though he could change things here and there, who was to say that it wouldn't cause everything they had to fall apart, or invite in more trouble than they could handle. In the end, the safest course was the only real course before them. "Fine. Then do it because the longer we stand here, the harder it's going to be to know that I finally had the chance to fucking change something and didn't." he hissed, teeth grinding together on the last of his syllables.

Abruptly, Stiles stood, moving towards him with a force he'd not realized the man had and just as the softness of his fingertips brushed against Derek's temples, the world went dark.

It was rather cruel of the sun to shine so brightly through the trees as though nothing had happened. True to his word, Deaton had helped send him back, his grip tight on Stiles as the younger man remembered each detail of the moment he left. When he opened his eyes, however, he stood alone, once again in the forest listening to the sounds of the wind through the trees, the birds chirping in the distance and the sun beating down on his face, alone. Rather...anticlimactic.

That had to be a sign at least. If he returned and no one was there trying to stop him, then perhaps he hadn't tried to leave in the first place. Or they hadn't tried to stop him. Either way, the world looked just the same as it had before he'd begun his terrifying journey. As though the entire world continued moving on without Derek.

A forlorn sigh escaped his lungs and with a strength he didn't know he still possessed, Stiles forced himself to move, trekking on automatic to tyhe place he knew too well.

When the house came into sight, the shudders and curtains the same as they had always been, he didn't know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or not. Instead, he continued moving, up the porch stairs, now sturdy and painted white, over the threshold into the unlocked door of his home. Inside the air smelled just the slightest bit stale, a few particles of dust floating across his vision in the light of the waning afternoon sun. The only sign of life in the home was the discarded mail that sat on the tall stool next to the entryway and the pair of lone keys atop them.

Sluggish and drone-like, Stiles moved up the stairs, hand brushing absently over the grooves in the wood of the railing, the familiarity of the claw marks almost soothing in their wake. The room came upon him almost too soon, still half strewn about, ridiculous articles of clothing and personal items tossed about. The familiarity didn't burn as deeply this time, however, instead filled with a resignation. Slowly, he began picking up the pieces. Laundry goes in the basket, towels on top. The bed gets remade and straightened, tucking the top of the covers down over the pillows just the way they liked.

The chores seemed almost enigmatically therapeutic. Doing the loads of laundry; tossing out old food; sweeping out the dirt and dust from the floor and beating it out of the rug; taking the large bag of trash awkwardly down to the far corner of the drive. Before he realized it, the house was clean again, fans spinning high on the ceilings. And laying on the couch, Stiles let the exhausted thoughts take him, 'Maybe I can do this. Tomorrow I'll call Scott and my dad. Tomorrow I'll call Deaton and thank him for everything he did. Tomorrow I'll sleep in our bed. '

* * *

His father had keys to their house and he'd been gone at least day in this time, so it didn't surprise Stiles to hear the jangling of keys in the door or the open and close of the wood and metal against the outside of the house.

"I thought you were staying at your dad's until I got home."

His body jack-knifed so hard that the flailing of limbs hit the wood floor with a resounding thud heard throughout the house. Stiles' eyes snapped open from his place on the floor in front of the couch, sprawled out and breathing hard. That voice he would know anywhere, that shape, complete with suitcase standing in the living room entry way with a gruff brow raised in surprise and a bit of amusement.

"Derek…" he breathed, struggling to stumble to his feet, feeling like a newborn calf. His heart was threatening to beat out of his chest as he stared in disbelief at the man before him. There he was, as though nothing were wrong, as though everything had just kept on the same and Stiles hadn't gone through hell and back over him. Wait, suitcase?

"Are you alright? Your heart is going a mile a minute. I know I startled you, but Jesus Stiles, it sounds like you are about to have a panic attack." The taller man's brow furrowed in worry, his tone slow as he took a step forward. He didn't move far, however, before his arms were filled with his mate, heaving sobs against his shoulder. Derek dropped the bar of the suitcase, wrapping the younger man up against him tightly. "Stiles, what the hell happened? Are you alright? Did something happen to your dad?"

Stiles shook his head hard, pulling back after scrubbing his tears away on the strong curve of Derek's neck, a blinding grin spreading over his lips. "No, no I'm fine, he's fine, we're all fine, we're all perfect I just…..I just missed you." He choked out a laugh, hands raising to brush over the spikes of his husband's hair.

Again a sardonic eyebrow raised, but the hesitant smile that followed it was teasing and less frantic. "All this over a couple of weeks in New York?" he chuckled. "If I had known you would have been this upset, I would have forced you to go with me, but you were so insistent on staying…" Derek commented, eyeing Stiles again.

"Sorry I just…New York? Yeah, New York, no, no I remember. Peter, right? He called you out to come help him deal with some distant cousins or something, right?" he breathed, confused but grateful for the sudden memory that flashed across his thoughts. Peter had called him almost three weeks ago, asking his nephew to come help settle a family dispute that had turned into an impromptu reunion. Stiles had insisted on staying to continue his work and keep up the house but then had given in two nights in and went to stay with his father, unable to stand sleeping in their bed alone.

"…yeah…exactly. Are you sure you are okay? You are acting really weird and that takes a lot to accomplish considering it's you."

The light smack on his arm was reflex after all their years of teasing and Stiles found his laughter bubbling up again. "Yeah I'm great. Really, I'm…I'm perfect. I just missed you was all. Came back to clean before you got home." He lied, obviously catching Derek's attention, who noticed with a twitch in his brow but said nothing. Then an almost afterthought occurred to him, "But…wait, what about the pack? The one from the north that wanted the alliance?"

Derek's frown met his own on equal ground. "The one that never showed? What about them?"

Stiles shook his head in disbelief, another jolt of laughter shaking through his body as he hugged his husband to him. "Nothing, nothing. Just…didn't know if you heard anymore but it's not important. It's not important at all. In fact, forget I said anything about it and instead just cuddle the fuck out of me because I really, really need that right now, okay man? You just…you need to like, never let me go, okay? This is extremely important information here." He breathed, enjoying the teasing and still slightly confused laughter that followed the arms wrapping tighter around him.

"I think you should know, if you didn't know years ago, that saying 'I do' implies that you are stuck with me forever. " Derek chuckled, pressing warm kisses along the side of his head.

"Damn right I am. And you're not going anywhere. Promise."

The grin against his neck was unmistakable, the warmth in it familiar and calming as all the pieces clicked back into place. "Promise."

FIN.

* * *

_Ug I really don't like the spacing on ff but oh well. There you have it guys! Hope you enjoyed and I look forward to poking you guys with more fic soon, now that I'm back up on my feet!_

_Reviews are love and you guys all rock. Sterek yay_


	4. Epilogue

A week later found Stiles pushing his way into the clinic, bell over the door chiming in warning. He didn't have the chance to speak before Deaton himself had poked his head around from the backroom, eyeing Stiles carefully before nodding him back further inside the clinic.

"Come on back, Stiles." He offered kindly, moving back to the table where a small dog stood shaking uncertainly. Stiles felt for the poor puppy at that moment. He'd been in his position not long ago. Or very long ago, depending on how you looked at the situation. Speaking of, Stiles opened his mouth but was cut off once more before he could start.

"I suppose I should welcome you back, then, if I'm correct in assuming that you've just returned." The darker man stated, glancing up from under his brows to settle his gaze on Stiles' face, searching.

Stiles could only nod shortly, crossing his arms and staying quiet for a long moment as Deaton finished checking the dog's temperature. That was definitely a feat he was grateful he'd never had to endure. Once the other man had pat the dog on the head gently and turned to grab some gloves, however, Stiles could no longer be silent.

"I returned expecting to find my home still empty, to find my husband missing but there he was, Doctor. As if nothing had ever gone wrong, right there in front of me." He paused, taking a shaking breath, "He's still there. At the house. He's doing laundry." The sentence was followed by incredulous laughter. For the last few days, it was all Stiles could do to not touch Derek at every opportunity. Not that the man ever rejected the contact, but he knew his husband was growing more and more confused. He'd asked him multiple times to tell him what was wrong, but Stiles just couldn't bring himself to say anything. Partially because he had no idea what had happened. He knew Derek trusted him though, knew he wouldn't push until Stiles was ready to talk, and in the end he always did. Which brought him to where he was.

When Deaton hadn't responded, only going about his checkup of the puppy, Stiles barreled on, tightening the grip of his arms over his chest in seeking an invisible comfort. "When I was there, when I spoke to the you, then, you said something. You said that big things couldn't be changed. You…you said that you couldn't stop it from happening and that making any sort of big difference, something that would change the course of what happened would have terrible consequences. So then…how? What happened to the pack this time around? What changed everything?"

For a long moment, Deaton stilled and it looked as though he would protest involvement, eyeing Stiles carefully before placing the instrument in his hands on the table. "I _said_, Stiles, that I _believe_ it _could_ do irreparable damage to the future. That I _thought_ it might change too much." He paused, turning his gaze fully to meet the younger man's, his eyes full of intent. "What I came to realize over the years, however, was that believing and being are two separate entities. Once you left, I consulted with my friend once more on the affects of each change. But I also had the chance to observe your lives more."

Stiles frowned, moving to lean against the table, glancing down at the dog, who was now taking the chance to curl up against Deaton's side as the other man spoke. "I could go into detail about your lives, Stiles. I could tell you ever factor that did and did not change the past. But I won't. Instead I'll only tell you that the simplest answer was the hardest decision to make, but also, I believe, the wisest."

Understanding flooded his mind, replaying memories of him and Derek over the last few years. There were a few new memories, some a tiny bit different, but all in all, just the same. "What did you do?"

Deaton, for his part, didn't seem too fazed by the question, instead offering Stiles a very familiar half-smirk. "I did what had to be done. Just know that, no, I did not harm anyone. Simply…created a distraction that lead them away to settle in a more permanent location. There are many factors to a werewolf pack Stiles and that one was no different. Some run on instinct more than others and a sprawling unclaimed piece of land filled with wildlife can sometimes be more precious than money." He shrugged, eyes sparkling in amusement at Stiles' disbelieving face.

"You are telling me that all you had to do was drive them in a different direction and show them territory that wasn't claimed and that was that? That we could have avoided all of this in the first place by-"

"No." he interrupted, ignoring the sputtering from across the table. "What I am saying that the first time was necessary, but, as I stated before, time is not linear. It is interchangeable. In another place, Stiles, I believe that world still goes on. And in another one where you never returned, one where you never left, there are infinite possibilities, but it is my belief that there are more realities than we can grasp and this is simply the one that you happen to exist as yourself in."

That was a headache. That was definitely a headache coming on. More like a migraine growing inside of his head ready to burst out. Of all the…he knew it was complicated but somehow Deaton had managed to make it sound both complicated _and_ simple and that was going to be the largest headache of his life coming on. And the other man just stood there with that half-smile, knowing and certain of himself. Stiles could definitely punch him if he wasn't so damn grateful.

"So you gave me this whole huge speech about not changing anything and how it could alter the fabric of reality-"

"I didn't-"

"Artistic license! Same difference, dude! You basically told me I could do nothing but come back and face reality because it couldn't be changed and then…and then!"

"And then I changed it, correct."

Stiles huffed, crossing and uncrossing his arms before dragging a hand through his hair. "Okay you know what, gift horse." He choked out, tossing his hands up in the air. "I could argue with you till I'm blue, but point taken. So what do I tell Derek then because he knows something is different, he knows something is wrong and I can't lie to him forever, I can't keep things from him."

"It's not impossible to keep things from Derek, Stiles, if necessary." Deaton argued lightly, picking up the puppy and sliding him into a small crate in the corner for transport.

"He's my _husband._ It's not that I can't, it's that I _won't_."

"Stiles, I'm not going to tell you that you can't tell him. It may confuse and complicate things, yes, but I have no control over the decisions you make. I'm simply suggesting that it may be a smarter route to let sleeping dogs lie, if you will pardon the terrible pun."

Stiles frowned far too much like Derek at the comment, feeling the slightest bit offended for him. He hadn't lied to Derek in years. Certainly keeping something from him was one thing, but lying flat out was another and he felt his heart clench at the thought of hurting the trust he'd so carefully gained and then lost. Sighing heavily, he turned back towards the darker man, meeting his gaze once more. "I can't keep this from him. No matter how he reacts, I'll have to tell him. At least he's still alive and if he gets angry or can't forgive me for what I did, then that's his decision, but I'll know that he's still breathing and that's enough."

They both knew that was a lie, that Stiles' rash decision had been born out of the loss of his husband, knowing that he could not touch or kiss him again and though Derek would still live, it would break his heart completely to lose him again in such a tangible way.

Deaton was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. "Then may I offer some advice, Stiles. Tell him the truth if you must, but do not go into the conversation expecting him to feel disgust towards what you did. I think you underestimate Derek and the trust that he holds in you. I knew the Hales and have known Derek his entire life and seeing him marry you will never cease to surprise me. Not-" he started, giving Stiles a sharp look when he glared over at him,"because it is you, but because I honestly never expected him to trust or love someone so deeply. But he did and still does. Do not forget that, Stiles."

In the end, talking to Derek hadn't been nearly as painful or concerning as he'd nearly driven himself to anxiety thinking it would be. For a week or so, Derek had simply reiterated that he trusted him and when he was ready he would be there. The next week, Stiles sat him down and spoke. He talked and talked for nearly two hours, all the while Derek's eyes and ears completed focused on his every word until his husband had finished speaking, wringing his hands together.

Derek had then proven just how perfect of a husband he was by kissing the other man, asking him a few scant questions and explaining to him in as few words as possible and quite a lot more in the way of actions, just how grateful he was to have someone who would give up and risk so much for him.

Stiles never told another soul besides Deaton and Derek what had happened. It was for them to keep, a knowledge that, should he have the chance, Stiles would gladly pass on to any practicing spark or mage. A warning that not all power brings good no matter how the intention may lean. But for then, he would simply be grateful he'd been given another chance at life with Derek.


End file.
